


I didn't sign up for a Tennessee Williams play...

by FailureArtist



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Awkwardness, Bigotry, Disabled Characters, Discussed death, F/M, Ghosts, Humanstuck, Juggalos, Louisiana, M/M, Pentecostal christianity, Race Issues, The South, Unhealthy home, Unrequited Love, but no voodoo, mansions, repressed sexuality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 05:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9370538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FailureArtist/pseuds/FailureArtist
Summary: Or: Louisianastuck for shortTavros goes from Maryland to Louisiana to visit his best friend Gamzee. It turns out Gamzee thinks they are more than friends. Can Tavros spend a week with Gamzee after knowing Gamzee has a crush on him? Can he deal with Gamzee's ill-tempered father, his creepy over-protective brother, that brother's hyper friends, and in addition Gamzee's ex-girlfriend? How easy is it to get a ticket from Baton-Rouge to Baltimore-Washington at the last minute?(First chapter is a call for betas, second chapter is a rough draft and another plea for betas)





	1. Chapter 1

I need some betas and fact-checkers for this fic. It will be nine chapters, one for each day of Tavros' stay. There is a sex scene planned between two sixteen-year-olds but you can skip that if you want. I would like someone to judge the work as a whole but what I'm really looking for is people familiar with:

Louisiana (especially the Florida Parishes)

American Sign Language/Deaf culture

Juggalos

Pentecostal Christianity

and/or

Louisiana Creole

 

I need advice in these subjects so my story doesn't ring false. If you can help me in one or all of these subjects, please send an Ask to my tumblr failure-artist or if you don't have an account (I don't take anons) you can comment on this chapter.

 

I know this is obnoxious but I haven't gotten any help on tumblr. Please help me out.  


	2. rough draft i still need betas

It is serendipitous that your spring break coincided with Gamzee's. It is also a plus that Easter happened so early as not to compete with this mid-April vacation. It was a given that you spend it with your best friend. Your parents might have been worried about sending you to a stranger if they weren't so grateful that after you meet him you'll have a "real live" friend who isn't in a coma.

You had always wanted to fly but your father hates flying. Now you had the chance and you looked forward to it almost as much as the destination. Unfortunately, it turned out flying didn't agree with you and instead of enjoying the magic you cursed that the cheapest flight from Baltimore to Baton Rouge routed you through Detroit. So here you are at the Pick-Up at Baton Rouge International Airport, with your luggage next to you on a trolley.

You see among all the distracting chaos a tall man with an eraserboard that says "TAVROS NITRAM" in blocky but stylized purple letters. For a moment you think this is Gamzee until you remember that Gamzee has an older brother named Kurloz. If Mama could see you go towards a man in skull facepaint and a skeleton sweatshirt with a realistic heart on the breast, she would immediately grab your wheelchair and take you back to Rockville. She's not here though.

"Hello. Are you looking for Tavros Nitram?" You sound so silly asking something that obvious.

He nods.

"That person," you say, "Would be me."

He sighs happily but doesn't say anything else.

"Are you, Kurloz Makara?"

He nods.

"Where is your car, or truck, or whatever you have?"

He takes out his cell phone and starts fiddling with it. You are confused and a little hurt until the phone starts talking to you in a voice that sounds like a metal singer on autotune.

“THE VAN IS ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THE GARAGE. SORRY.”

You find it a little disconcerting being addressed by robot Nathan Explosion but you reply, "It's okay."

He takes the trolley for you and you leave for the garage. He doesn't say anything along the way. Gamzee told you Kurloz was "the quiet type" but you didn't know he meant absolutely silent. You wonder if Kurloz is Deaf or simply mute. You wish Gamzee had told you this. Maybe you could have learned some sign language.

You get to Kurloz' vehicle and your mother would definitely pull you away from this. It's a black windowless van, completely non-descript, perfect for kidnapping. You tug on Kurloz' sweatshirt and he turns to look at you.

"Where is Gamzee?" you ask slowly and clearly.

Kurloz takes out his phone and types something.

"HE'S IN THE VAN. PROBABLY SLEEPING.”

Kurloz knocks on the side of the van. There's some shuffling inside. The door slides open and out pops Gamzee. The teen is shorter than his brother but all long limbs. His afro is asymetrical, unlike his brother's perfect symetry. He wears his full clown face and his lips are curled up into a huge smile.

"Tavros!" Gamzee yells, "Motherfuckin' pleasure to see you, my bro." His high-pitched voice sounds more melodious when not converted into digits.

"The pleasure, is all mine," you reply and you hope your voice sounds better in person too.

You go towards each other, in your case wheeling. When you get to him, he holds out his skinny arms.

"Time for some hand action!" he yells.

You then do the special handshake you had planned on doing if you ever met in person. It turns out to be more difficult than you thought and you hit your funny bone but you don't care.

He opens the passenger side door for you. The van isn't that high and you think you can make it in. Before you can say anything, he picks you up and puts you on the seat.

“Wow, Gamzee, you're strong,” you say as he gets into the jump seat.

“What's so hard 'bout carryin' a friend?”

“Well, I have a lot of bulk and you, uhh, don't...”

“You make me strong.”

Meanwhile, Kurloz opens the back of the van and loads in your chair and luggage. When he's done, he closes the door with a sigh.

“He's probably goin' to have one last smoke for the road,” Gamzee says.

“Your brother...you said he didn't talk much...is he Deaf or just mute?”

“Mute. Uhh...he caught some motherfuckin' sharpnel in his squeaktube.”

“Sharpnel? Was he in the war?”

“Nah, it was a car crash back five years.”

“Oh, that's too bad.”

“Hey, speakin' of crashes...how was your flight?”

You sigh. “It was decidedly non-magical.”

“At least you got to go to Detroit, didn't you?”

“For an hour, yeah.”

“That's a motherfuckin' shame. Man, all the things I would do if I was in Detroit...”

“It sounds like a scary city.”

“I think we could get along there.”

“Are we, going there?”

“Maybe some day.”

You talk about Detroit until Kurloz comes back. Kurloz gets into the driver's seat without a word and starts driving out of the parking lot. It doesn't take that long to get out of the airport that's so small compared to Baltimore-Washington. He is a careful driver, maybe too careful. His driving is on the slow side. The van takes the highway north. You had thought the Makaras lived just outside Baton Rouge but their hometown seems so far away. Still, you have fun talking with Gamzee about all the signs you see. Kurloz doesn't participate. After two hours, you finally see the sign you were looking for.

You say, “Highville, population four thousand, one hundred, thirty.”

Gamzee chuckles. “Only seventy more folks to go.”

“What do you mean...” You laugh. “Oh, I get it! I'd high-five, if I could.”

“This motherfuckin' town used to be call Highblood Creek.”

“Whoa, how did it get a name, like that?”

“Weeell, there was this bloodbath of a battle and...well, Kurloz would know more 'bout it.”

You look at Kurloz and he nods.

Gamzee continues, “But Kurloz can't talk right now, else he'd text-to-voice your motherfuckin' ear off.”

“I'll ask later. Why'd they change it?”

“It was too real for the city fathers.”

The van pulls into a suburban neighborhood and you are disoriented. You thought that Gamzee said he lived in a "crazy big ass mansion" but these are all blocky Cape Cod houses. Then you pull up a wooded hill. There are trees but no houses. After half a mile, you see what could be called a "crazy big ass mansion" but it's too dark to see if it's crazy. Only the porch lights are on. The paved road stops and the van drives on bouncing gravel.

You ask, “So, is your father, inside?”

“Oh, the Old Man is still at work.”

“When is he coming home?

“Sunday afternoon.”

You find this news disconcerting but you say, “Then we can have all the fun we want!”

The van stops a few yards from the front door. Gamzee and Kurloz gets out. Kurloz gets the wheelchair and rolls it up to the passenger door. Again, Gamzee takes you out of the van and puts you in the wheelchair. However, he doesn't push the wheelchair for you, for which you are grateful. Meanwhile, Kurloz takes the van into the modern garage next to the house.

You and Gamzee both reach the house. It is three stories tall, including an attic, and it is very wide. The only part fully-lit is the entrance with its white columns all around. The first floor rises up two feet but luckily next to the stairs is a real ramp. You roll up the ramp to find the porch twelve feet deep filled with lawn furniture and things you can't see in the dark.

Gamzee opens the solid white double doors for you and turns on the lights. You expected a grand staircase or some type of foyer but instead you enter right into a main room. There's a folded-up blue-and-white futon facing towards the french doors, two lightly-padded chairs, and a low table covered in magazines. The walls are white but mostly covered with framed photographs from every era. The mantels along all the walls are fully loaded with knicknakes and random household items like duct tape and batteries. The floor is bare except for a few magazines.

“This up in here be the sitting parlor,” Gamzee says.

The genteal phrase doesn't seem right for a room with cheap Scandanvian furiniture. You still reply, “It's lovely.”

Gamzee goes over to the door on the left of the front door, opens it, and turns on the lights. You follow. Inside is a long room facing more french doors. The room is occupied by a very lenghty table with only three chairs to keep it company. The table and the chairs, with their richly-carved legs, actually look like they belong in a southern mansion. The card table against the wall doesn't.

“Then this here be the dinning room,” he says, “We don't always dine here though. Just on Sundays.”

You roll onto the off-white canvas floor of the dining room. He goes over to the double doors on the left close to the dining room, throws them open outward, and turns on the light. You roll onto the linenoleom of that new room. It is filled with cabinets from top to bottom. Between the cabinets is a counter. On one counter is a microwave and blocking a cabinet is a mini-fridge. In the middle of the room is a table of the less fancy kind then the one in the dining room. Around the room are six chairs of four different types. The right wall is filled with yet more french doors. The door to the left is barred up.

“This be the pantry,” he says, “And breakfast nook, if you wanna be all fancy and shit.”

“Why is this door, barred up?” you ask.

“That's to my motherfuckin' bedroom.”

“How, do you get in, though?”

“Oh, there's another entrance. Just don't feel right havin' a private room with two openings, is all.”

He opens the french doors, revealing a causeway from the main house to a squat brick building.

“That over there is the kitchen,” he says, “Wanna see it?”

“Maybe later.”

He backtracks to the sitting parlor and you follow him. He opens the door next to the futon and the two of you enter that room. It's another living room but an informal one. The floor is carpeted. A huge plush purple couch lays against the near wall. Around it are two loveseats, one yellow and one green. On the far wall is a fireplace but it's blocked by an entertainment system cabinet. One door leds outside and though it has a window it's not french like the rest. What you notice most is the huge skull-shaped bong sitting flagrantly on the coffee table.

“This be the back parlor. Over there is the john...” Gamzee points to the second door on the left. “And over there be my bedroom.” He points to the door on the right that has a purple smiley clown face on it.

“And, you keep a bong, right here?”

Then there's noise from the first door on the left as Kurloz comes in with a backpack and a duffel bag. He places them down on the floor.

“Thank you, very much,” you say, “Sorry, the duffel bag, is so heavy. I packed the equipment, I use to exercise, in it. Also, my backpack has my laptop.”

Kurloz doesn't reply in any way. He just leaves the way he came. The steps creak in his wake.

“He's probably just tired,” Gamzee says.

“It's okay. We don't need him, to have fun.”

You both go over to the luggage. Gamzee lifts up the backpack easily.

“I like myself this backpack,” he says, “All them decoratin's. Look at this button: 'Clap if you believe in fairies'.”

“I, also, got a shirt, that says that, but I didn't bring it with me. Actually, I don't wear that shirt much.”

“And wow, you musta done pretty good as a boy scout back in the day to get all those badges.”

“Um, those are Pokemon Gym badges. I don't know, where my boy scout badges are, now, after four years.”

“I'm sure as Hell you got more badges than me.”

“You were in the boy scouts?”

“Nope. You did me one better there.”

Gamzee picks up the duffel bag.

“Motherfucker, you must got a whole motherfuckin' gym of weights in here,” he says, though he shows no stress.

“It's not that much, just enough, to keep me from going soft.”

“This weight trainin' sure has been doing your body good.”

“Maybe you could join me, getting our bodies big and hard?”

“That'd be wicked fun.”

You go back over to the door with the smiley face. He opens it, turns on the light in the room, and lets you in. You'd seen part of the room from video chat but you didn't get a sense of how big it was before. It's wider than it is deep and the bed takes up a king-sized space. There is a desk but it's too covered with junk to be of any use. The bookshelf above the desk has some books but mostly DVDs, CDs, and magazines. A unicycle lays in another corner. The walls are covered with garish posters of insane clowns, one you knew intimatedly from video chat. The walls not covered in posters are a deep almost-black purple. What most draws your attention is the wardrobe. The ornately-carved piece is the only piece of furniture that doesn't look modern.

“You have a wardrobe?” you ask.

“Yeah,” Gamzee says as he opens it, “This motherfucker is an antique, from the turn-of-the-century, back from when they didn't have no damn closets. None of the motherfuckin' bedrooms have a closet. The master bedroom got itself an even bigger and older wardrobe.”

The wardrobe is dense with hanging clothes. You can't see the back.

“Have you ever, gone into the wardrobe?” you ask.

“Whole lot of times.”

“Have you ever gone, into a magical land?”

“No, but it is kind of calming. Is there supposed to be a magical land?”

“It's just a joke.”

“Ain't that from one of your fantasy books?”

“Yes, C. S. Lewis. Have you read it?”

“I think I tried...but I ain't much for reading.”

“When I read it first, I wanted to go into a wardrobe.” You sigh. “Now I'm in front, of a wardrobe, and I can't go in, with my wheelchair.”

“You still could get up that motherfucker. It'd be fun chillin' there together.”

“Uhh, no thanks.”

You roll over to the king-size bed. It doesn't have a canopy to match the wardrobe. One side of the bed is against the boarded up door and the other side has a safety rail on it. You touch the rail.

“I added that motherfuckin' rail for you,” Gamzee says, “It ain't right for you to sleep on the floor, especially this floor with its hard-ass rug.”

“Thank you.”

“I even washed up them sheets for you!”

“I brought sheets, just in case, on my mama's wish, but thank you.”

He brings the luggage over to you but you aren't in the mood to unpack.

“So, what do we have planned, for tonight?”

“I thought we could get that ol' bong fired up, smoke ourselves a bowl, and...maybe make out?”

Your heart skips a beat at those two words. “Uhhhhh...uhhhh...”

“What's wrong, motherfucker? You don't wanna smoke?”

“Uhh, there's that but...” You take a deep breath. “Did you really say make out?”

“Eeyup.”

“I, uhh, can't.”

“You too beat for sloppy makeouts?”

“No, it's just...” Your cheeks feel red. “I think the way you feel? I don't feel back.”

“You don't?”

“Gamzee, I'm straight.”

“Motherfucker, I ain't one of them gay types neither, but I thought we had this motherfuckin' love connection goin' on.”

“Don't get me wrong, Gamzee. I do love you, since you are my best friend, but, you aren't my boyfriend. We aren't dating. You never even asked me out on a date.”

“I motherfuckin' thought this was our date.”

“I'm just here, as a friend.”

He scratches his head and looks up at the ceiling. “I guess I done got it all wrong like I always motherfuckin' do.”

He puts his head down and his shoulders up. His breathing gets heavier. You are afraid he is about to sob. Things would get even more awkward if he did. Instead he raises his head and his face splits into a smile.

“But that ain't gonna spoil our week, will it?”

You return his smile. “Of-of course not, Gamzee!”

He claps his hands on your shoulder. “This is gonna be the bestest wickedest Spring Break any two friends ever had!”

“Yes, the best!”

“We're gonna be up all night doing friend-type shit!”

“Yes!”

There is then a silence. He doesn't take his hands off. He just stares at you. You lose your smile.

“Actually,” you say, “I've had a long day, and I'd really like, to go to sleep now.”

He loses his smile. His hands come off your shoulders and his body straightens.

“Oh. Yeah, bro, that'd be cool. You can get your rest on.”

“I'll just go to the john, and change, and do other stuff.”

“You do that.”

You take your tolietries and your sleeping clothes out of your backpack and wheel over to the bathroom. You've already seen the burnt orange room from the photos your parents insisted your host send. They wanted to know if you could get in the bathtub. The built-in bathtub does have rails but it isn't as accessible as your huge shower. Still, it will do. The free-standing sink is cluttered with bottles, not to mention little black hairs. The oval mirror shows your brown face is flushed but your buzzcut is still fine. The toilet is modern compared to the rest of the fixtures and it thankfully has a lid. There isn't much room but you're practiced at changing in unfavorable places. Your clothes are exchanged for a knee-length shirt covering your boxers. You brush your teeth and apply acne cream to your face.

You return back to the door with the smiley face and knock on it. Gamzee quickly opens the door. You are surprised to see he's only wearing his small tie-dye boxers. His skinny chest and knobby legs have some impressive manly black fur on them. His treasure trail almost reaches up to his chest. What really strike you with all the yellow-brown skin on display is his makeup-free face. He always wears his “face” in video chats. You knew logically at one point this week you'd see him without it but you are still taken aback. Sad to say, the makeup brought the features of his face together, making them seem symetrical, and he looks very off without it.

“Uhhh.”

“Hey, bro,” Gamzee says, “I decided if you were gonna sleep, I'll sleep too.”

“And you took off your, uhh, face.”

“I ain't so down with the clown that I'd wear it to bed.” He points at his nose, which seems to have been broken sometime in the past. “What do you think?”

“You have a, uhh, nice face.”

“You too! Friend.”

Gamzee steps aside and you roll into the room. You go directly to the bed. The rail on it is familar to you and you can pull it down and put it back up. The sheets, including the pillowcase, feel and smell clean, though you are sure your mama would prefer you change them. You don't care though. When you are in the bed, you turn to Gamzee, who is standing watching you.

“Where are you, going to sleep?” you ask.

It takes him too long to answer, “I'll go see if I can scronge myself up a sleepin' bag from the attic.”

“Uhh, thank you for the bed, then.”

Gamzee leaves for that task, and you are left with the idea that he originally planned to sleep in the same bed as you. You wonder if he planned not just to make out but go all the way with you. This was the week where you would physically consumate your mutual attraction. However, your attraction definately isn't mutual and you have no plans of consumating with him. You aren't sure you can consumate but that was another issue. You wonder why Gamzee thought you said yes to a question he never bothered asking. You feel like you'd agreed to this visit under false pretenses.

In any case, you are stuck here a week. Your return ticket is dated to next Saturday and it would be prohibitively expensive to go home. Your parents would also want to know why you left and it would be too embarassing to explain. They aren't raging homophobes but they might be reluctant to let you be friends with someone they know to be gay or bisexual. Finally, it would be very cruel to Gamzee to leave.

You realize you are hungry. You'd been too distracted to think about it. In your backpack is a bag of Utz Crab Chips you bought from Maryland for your Louisiana friend. You take it out and open it up. While you wait for Gamzee, you end up inhaling a third of the bag. When you realize how much you've taken, you put it away. Gamzee keeps a roll of paper towels by his bed and you clean off the generic Old Bay seasoning with one. Your stomach is full of chips, your mouth is full of dry spice, and your soul is full of guilt over your gluttony. You take your water bottle and drink the last few drops.

After fifteen minutes of Gamzee's depature, you hear him come back. You put the cover over your head. The door opens and Gamzee says “Slumber party!” but you keep pretending to sleep. He says nothing more. He shuffles around for a minute, presumably setting up his sleeping bag. The lights go off. He goes close to you, says “Good night, sleeping beauty,” and settles down into the crunch of a sleeping bag.

After a few minute, you take the covers off your head. You look over the side of the bed to see Gamzee's Afroed head peaking out of a dark blue sleeping bag. His eyes are closed. It doesn't seem he's having trouble sleeping despite your rejection. You decide you shouldn't either.

You whisper “good night, Gamzee” softly and go to sleep. Despite the upset tonight, it isn't difficult. You've had a long day and you're good at sleeping.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still need a beta. this is just a teaser.


End file.
